


Eliot's Letter

by creativityandcoffee



Series: Saying Goodbye (Letters to Q) [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Hopeful Ending, Letter, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, but no suicidal attempts or actions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativityandcoffee/pseuds/creativityandcoffee
Summary: I’m writing this letter for myself, Q, because I need to let you go. I need to release you, to leave you, in order to live.But is there really any living without you?





	Eliot's Letter

**Author's Note:**

> The first work of my Saying Goodbye (Letters to Q) series. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: There are mentions of Eliot having suicidal thoughts/dreams in this fic. There are no suicidal attempts or actions, but the reference to suicide is not brief. If mentions of suicide are something that you should steer clear of, then I would skip reading this fic.

_Dear Q,_

I love you.

I had my chance to say that, and I backed away. I thought I’d get that chance again, but I never did. And now I know I should have acted when I still could—when you looked at me, with that unshielded gaze, and asked if we could try again.

_Who gets that kind of proof of concept?_

I still remember our lifetime together like it was yesterday. I remember the tiles, the sketches, the late nights and early mornings; I remember Arielle and Teddy, the peaches and plums; and I remember _you_ —you and me, together each and every day.

I can’t imagine a happier existence than the one I got to live with you: the one we spent bickering over the beauty of all life and building a family of our very own. There’s a comfort in knowing that I didn't fuck everything up in at least one lifetime.

But in _this_ lifetime, I made sure to cast all opportunities for happiness far, far away from me—out into the darkness, down into the fire.

I’ve never regretted anything more than that.

These memories I have of you, and the ghost of you that haunts my mind, are not enough. They can _never_ be enough, and will never be enough, to fill this hole in my heart—this gash that’s recently started to open (and will only grow larger, I’m sure).

Losing you is a special type of wound: one that gets worse with time, rather than better.

As the days drag on—as it becomes weeks, months, _years_ since I last spoke to you—this pain can only continue to build, can only begin to burn more fiercely... until, at last, it consumes me; until, at last, I die in agony, in darkness and flames and bitterness and doubt.

That’s what I fear will happen.

... I’ve thought a lot about death. I've thought a lot about how dying might be easier, at this point. I haven't told anyone that, not even Margo. But since we lost you—since  ** _I_  **lost you—the concept of dying has crossed my mind, here and there, once or twice.

Once, or twice, or maybe more.

Sometimes, I’ll dream of a river: it flows crystal-clear, and it’s surrounded by a forest, lush and green and teeming with life. After a moment’s pause, I step into this river, and I let myself be dragged down by its currents.

I simply lie there in the water, fully intending to drown.

But whenever that river comes to my mind, you do as well; your face, your voice, your words fill up my thoughts, even if I don’t want them to. I see you standing over the water, standing over me while I sink, and I watch as you reach out your hand. Then, I have a moment to decide—only a moment to choose whether to live.

At that point, you always say the same thing.

_There’s hope in living, El. There’s hope in life. You’ll never find that at the bottom of the river._

I grasp your hand, then, and you pull me out. Each and every time, you pull me out. You save my life. You stop me from drowning. You steal me away from the jaws of death.

I always wake up before I can thank you.

I’m writing this letter for myself, Q, because I need to let you go. I need to release you, to leave you, in order to live.

But is there really any living without you?

You’d say that there is. You’d say that there’s hope out there—waiting just around the corner, lying just around the bend.

_If we seek out hope, we’ll find it; there’s nothing else that so desperately wants to be found._

I imagine you'd say that—or, at least, something like it.

In the Pandora legend, after all of the evils of the world are let out—after Fear, Famine, Illness, War, Jealousy, and Anger are all released—Hope remains. Somehow, for some reason, Hope still stays, and so makes our lives a bit easier to bear.

I never cared about that myth until you retold it to me. Then, it became the best story I'd ever heard.

I’m going to seek out hope again, Q. I’m going to seek out hope like I used to.

Whenever the evils of the world attacked me, and whenever I was just getting ready to give up, you were the Hope that always remained. You were the Hope that always stayed.

Now, I’ll have to become my own hope. But I’ll do it, Q. I'll do it for you.

Because I love you.

Because I’ve always loved you.

And because I always, always, _always_ will.

_Forever yours,_

_Eliot Waugh_


End file.
